Chapter 2
POV: Colt Voss
The bronc came out of the chute like it already hated me.
Eight hundred pounds of pure meanness, all muscle and spite, twisting hard left the second the gate slammed open.
I spurred once, just to remind the bastard who was on top, and locked my free hand high.
The world narrowed to dirt and sky and the violent roll of its spine under my thighs.
Hay and dust and the copper tang of old blood from last week’s wreck filled my nose.
My ribs still ached from that one. Didn’t matter. Nothing did when the clock was running.
One.
The animal sunfished, back legs kicking so high I felt the ground leave me. Spurs raked. The crowd noise blurred into a single roar.
Two.
It spun right, then left again, trying to throw me into the fence. My shoulder screamed. I gritted my teeth and stayed centered.
Three. Four. Five.
Six seconds in and the thing finally found its rhythm—short, punishing bucks that rattled every joint I owned. Sweat stung my eyes. The leather of the glove creaked under my grip.
Seven.
I could feel the end coming. The bronc dropped its front end hard and kicked out behind like it wanted to put a hoof through my chest. My free arm windmilled once for balance.
Eight.
The buzzer ripped the air. I bailed left, hit the dirt rolling, and came up spitting Montana dust while the pickup men crowded the animal out of the arena.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to get free.
Same old story. Another ride that wanted me dead.
Another eight seconds I survived out of pure stubbornness and nothing else.
I walked out of the arena without looking at the stands. No wave. No tip of the hat. The local boys could keep their applause. I wasn’t here for them.
The truck sat where I left it behind the chutes, black paint dulled by dust and time.
I climbed in, slammed the door, and reached for the bottle in the console.
Cheap whiskey. Burned going down the same way it always did.
I took two long pulls, wiped my mouth with the back of my glove, and pulled out my phone.
Same ritual. Every year. Every birthday. Every time the quiet got too loud.
I thumbed open the thread that never answered. Seven years of one-sided messages stared back at me. Birthday wishes. Drunk confessions. The kind of honest shit a man only sends when the whiskey is doing the talking and the silence is doing the rest. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Happy birthday, Fire. Still here. Still stupid enough to wait.
I hit send before I could talk myself out of it. The message went into the void the same way all the others had. No delivery receipt. No reply. Just the familiar empty space where her name used to live.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.
Memory slid in easy, the way it always did after a hard ride.
Ember at sixteen, barefoot on the north pasture fence, laughing while I tried to teach her how to sit a green colt.
Ember at nineteen, mouth on mine behind the old hay barn, tasting like summer and trouble.
Ember the night she left—taillights disappearing down the dirt road while I stood there like a dumbass and let her go.
Seven years. And I still sent the texts like some part of me hadn’t gotten the message.
My phone buzzed. Not her. Never her. Jax’s name lit the screen.
I answered on the second ring. “What.”
“Barn’s open.” My brother’s voice was tight. “Old hay barn on the east section. Lock’s been cut. Lights are on. I ain’t going in alone.”
I was already turning the key. “Stay put. I’m ten minutes out.”
The truck chewed gravel the whole way. Night had dropped hard over Shadow Creek, the kind of black that made the ranch lights look lonely.
I drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on the bottle, taking another pull every time the road tried to remind me how long it had been since anything good happened on this land.
Hay season smell drifted through the open window—sweet, dry, undercut with the metallic bite of blood from the branding pens earlier in the week. Home. Or whatever passed for it.
The old hay barn sat at the edge of the property like a bad memory.
Lights glowed through the cracks in the weathered boards.
Jax’s truck was parked at an angle, headlights still on.
He stood by the hood with a rifle across his chest and a look on his face I hadn’t seen since we were kids and our father was still teaching lessons the hard way.
“Whoever it is, they’re still inside,” he said. “Didn’t hear a vehicle leave.”
I didn’t answer. Just pulled the pistol from under the seat and racked it. The door of the barn hung open on one hinge. I stepped through.
The smell hit first—hay, dust, and something sharper. Blood. Fresh.
She was in the middle of the floor.
Bound to the center support beam with rope that had already rubbed her wrists raw.
Head slumped forward. Dark hair matted against one temple where blood had dried in a thick streak down the side of her face.
A heavy gold ring sat on her left hand like it had been forced there, the Blackthorn crest ugly and obvious even in the low light.
A folded note was pinned to the front of her shirt with a hunting knife.
My boots stopped moving.
Seven years of silence cracked open in my chest so hard I felt it in my teeth.
I holstered the pistol without looking and crossed the dirt floor in four long strides.
Up close the damage was worse. A bruise was already purpling along her jaw.
Her breathing was shallow but steady. Alive.
Barely. I yanked the knife free, tossed the note aside without reading it, and started on the ropes.
The fibers were wet with her blood. My hands—steady enough to stay on a bronc that wanted me dead—shook like a green kid’s.
“Ember.”
Her name came out rough. Whiskey and dust and something I refused to call fear.
She didn’t answer. I cut the last rope and caught her as she sagged forward.
She was lighter than I remembered. Too light.
I lifted her against my chest and the smell of her hit me—same soap she used to steal from the bunkhouse, under the blood and the fear.
My Free. My Fire. The only woman who had ever made the cowboy in me want to burn the whole damn world down just to keep her warm.
I turned toward the door. Jax stood there with the rifle lowered and his mouth open.
“Is that—”
“Get the truck running,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. “Now.”
I carried her out into the night. Her head rolled against my shoulder. Blood smeared across the front of my shirt. The Blackthorn ring caught the porch light from the main house and flashed once like a threat.
I looked down at her face—the same face that had haunted every empty birthday, every drunk text, every eight-second ride that nearly killed me—and the practiced indifference I had worn for seven years finally split wide open.
“You don’t get to die in my barn, Fire,” I growled against her hair. “Not after everything.”
Her eyelashes fluttered once. A soft sound escaped her throat. Not words. Not yet.
But it was enough.
I held her tighter and walked toward the truck like the ground itself might try to take her back